One Shot
by endearing-introvert
Summary: Falling was not scary. Falling was perfect.


One shot. The phrase that described so much of his life, he realized looking down at the streets below. One shot. That's what he had, that's what he took, that's what he'd leave. The buzzing in his ears finally slowed as he realized that's all he ever needed. One shot and this would be over. One shot and he would be back at Baker Street with the aroma of fresh tea and the constant hum of John about him. So he laughed, because he loved how delicious irony could be. He laughed and that began the time bomb he couldn't reverse.

Moriarty growled. Sherlock circled the small man like a panther. He knew exactly how he could diffuse this situation, analyzed the moment from every angle, from every syllable. But he forgot to search the shadows. And then there was the shot. Blood ran from under his hair and twisted against the much too cold concrete, escaping its timely prison. The bile rose thick against his tongue. This was wrong. This wasn't a possibility. His one shot at saving John was gone, and Sherlock couldn't salvage his breathing enough to think clearly. The bile stung against his gums. He swallowed grimily, looking for help. Looking for a miracle. Looking for angels. But found London. So he mounted the ledge again. Glancing about the busy street full of people who had no idea. Full of smiles, of tears, of ghosts Sherlock couldn't catch. Of mysteries he couldn't touch and of love that he was sure would lock his tomb.  
The cab slowed across the street. John's mess of hair appeared before the rest of him. Sherlock could read the fear in John's stance. In his pace, and he realized he couldn't fly without kissing the rock that anchored him first. As much as he hated it, he couldn't bear to let John find Sherlock after his descent. The numbers of his phone sung John's name. It was selfish, so selfish. But he had to say goodbye. After all, this was John's fall. Sherlock would jump, but John would crash and he at least had to offer his best friend one last thing before allowing Sherlock's ribs to crack and pierce John's heart.  
His voice was so distant, yet there he was. Sherlock wondered if he could instead fly down to his friend. If he could just trace the lines against John's forehead, the lines that had carved themselves so recently, so rapidly. He reached out to touch him, to caress his worry, to hold him against his fingers. Sherlock wondered if John would let him, would understand. But he couldn't. He was losing precious time. So he did the best he could with one last riddle. One final shot.

_A magic trick._

And it was time. He tossed the useless device aside and gazed up to the sky above. If ever there was a God, he hoped that the angels would pillow John's fall. The sun caressed his curls and he closed his eyes, allowing air to fill his lungs one last time. Snow began to fall, painting his already wet cheeks. He let it comfort him finally realizing the sentiment people felt for snow. The purity of a flake drifting from such great heights only to melt on the concrete. Only to be ignored by the rushing mother of three. The adulteress who forgot what it felt like to be needed by another. The man who would soon lose all the light from his eyes. Yet, it fell all the same, whether anyone believed in its beauty or not. Sherlock imagined John as a child, catching snowflakes on his tongue, cheeks ruddy against the chill of England. Before all this. He relinquished his air as a thank you for the last moments he had before he destroyed everything again. He spread his arms against the universe that was already big enough without him. Against the ocean of love Sherlock knew he would drown in.

_Alone is what protects me._

He took a step.

Falling was not scary. Falling was perfect. The snow swept about him, the wind danced with him. His hair brushed against his ears, where the world was silent for once. His lips tasted the palpable pain from John's final scream, and he let the tears slide away without a second thought. He was sorry. Thoroughly sorry, but this was his one shot. He had to save him. Had to save all of them, but mostly _him_. Because without him there was nothing, Sherlock realized. And that was why falling was perfect. Because at the bottom John would be safe. And as long as there was a pulse sprinting against John's bones, Sherlock was happy. _Happy. _

It ended much too soon. He felt the blood paint a picture. He hoped John would see. He closed his eyes against the cold and hoped his one shot rang true.


End file.
